I am full of lust lately, the kind that propels you toward ways of living that most people consider silly and decadent and hedonistic and unsustainable. Aaaand that’s because they are. But it doesn’t matter; a person who can’t get behind hedonism is a person you shouldn’t care to know.
I want things. Things that have no real-life counterpart. Things that can only ever exist in digital daydreaming. That’s okay. I want to imagine the universe indulging me, and the actual oxygen-assisted feasibility of these circumstances is no impediment to my brain’s insistence on producing them.
(I want to stop typing sentences like that last one right there, but … no promises.)
I want to be on a beach with you. At dusk, the sun retreating and throwing long shadows recklessly onto the ground around us. I want your hand in mine, your palm finding its way to my stomach, my shoulders, my face, our grins meeting goofily, we are stretching, we are pretending to resettle ourselves on these towels because we are uncomfortable, but we are really just trying to get closer without seeming needy. We are sober. Hungover, slightly, maybe, but we’ve not had a drink yet today and the sun burns our backs but we are entwined and dozing off and trying not to snore and we will not move until there is a breeze that is so cold it makes us shiver and yawn and stretch and think about where we parked.
I never want to feel the need to write something like that last paragraph ever again. Ridiculous.
I feel you, but not in the sense that we are sharing the same towel.
Your talent breaks my heart sometimes.
In a good way.
@Bette
Oh, you tease.
@grandefille
:) Why, thank you.